


Into the Night

by eratothemuse



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Drinking, Drunkenness, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, NSFW, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Spooky, Unprotected Sex, are we really gonna nitpick this one? particularly?, dubcon due to this, kidnapping by fae, knife play? i mean he cuts the reader during sex does that count?, me taking liberties with celtic myths and legends, mentions of decapitation since he's a dullahan in this, mentions of sacrifices and blood, not safe for work, ooc possibly but idfk anymore this is a headless horseman smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: All the village knows how unwise it is to wander into the woods on festival nights, lest you risk being taken by whatever is lurking within. But, with festivals there is mead, and the foolish whims of young people. A dare leads you away from the fire, deeper into the midsummer night. The consequences may prove worse than a wounded pride, had you simply not accepted this challenge.
Relationships: Dullahan!Quentin Beck/Reader, Dullahan!Quentin Beck/You, Fae!Quentin Beck/You, Fae!QuentinBeck/Reader, Quentin Beck/Reader, Quentin Beck/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. Into the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I was working on for Halloween, and I know it’s late now, but I’m posting it anyway. It’s kinda’ weird, kinda’ spooky, but I hope y’all like it anyway. I just couldn’t get the picture of Quentin Beck as a Dullahan outta’ my head because of the way he’ll sometimes hold his helmet, and so now we have this increadibly niche fic. 🤷 Don’t worry, you ain’t gotta know shit about celtic mythology to read this.

Photo sources: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/617866069706702848/layout-jake-gyllenhaal-in-prisoners-please-reblog) | [2](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/634664464804888576/untitled-kyle-thompson) | [3](https://yourjamesbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/634664208647241728) | [4](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/635215671817535488/a-qb-edit-that-no-one-asked-for-but-i-made-this)

* * *

The bonfire roars as you laugh, caught by the hand of the butcher’s daughter as she pulls you around the circle of dance perfected by the unwed maidens of the village year after year. It is burning far too high to jump over for luck by now, but you don’t worry that your chance of earning a blessing from the harvest god has passed you yet.

After all, the sun may have set, and the first sacrifices made, but the festival was not over. Not even close to it.

Lughnasa was one of your favorite times of the year. The long summer days were quelled somewhat by the cooler nights, crops bursting from the earth in preparation for the fall harvest. The stories, though, were what you enjoyed most. The tales riveted you, no matter the repetition, of how the god, Lugh, freed the kidnapped maize goddess, Eithne, from the clutches of the dark god of the underworld, subsequently saving the harvest from the greedy clutches of Cromm Crúaich.

It was as much a lesson for children as it was a holy tale, but you found that, as most stories of the fae could, it kept your attention at any age. Besides, the excitement surrounding the summer festival was something to look forward to, through the backbreaking work of your family’s farm.

Dancing your praise to the heavens leaves you breathless, as you tug at your friend’s hand with an airy laughter, “I must rest! The night is young; we should not use up all our energy so early in it!” She rolls her dark eyes at you, but relents when her name falls from your lips in a desperate whine, hitching the Gaelic dramatically on your tongue, “ _Sibéal_!”

“Fine, fine,” she, too, is somewhat breathless from your dancing, despite her eagerness to continue, as she guides the two of you from the circle while two other girls easily take your places. “What better time for a drink, then?”

“Another?” you catch her eye as you chirp her nickname with a scolding tease, “Liz! Here I thought you would wish to be more clear-headed, for when you finally buck up the courage to go over and ask _Peadar_ to sit beside you at the feast later.” It earns you a half-hearted glare as you send mocking kisses her way, silliness coming easily with the mead you’ve already taken part in at sunset.

“If I’m supposed to get the courage to ask Peter,” she bites back, bumping her shoulder to yours and stumbling you a bit with laughter, “then I will need all the _liquid_ courage I can get, won’t I?”

“You have a point somewhere in there,” giggles burst from the two of you as you make your way towards the barrels, helping yourselves.

You were finally catching your breath, chest no longer heaving with exertion as the sweat on your brow cools slightly with the help of the wind that has kicked up tonight. There was a beautiful full moon in the sky, the perfect night for the festival’s start with what few clouds there were. The mead thickens your tongue, slowing your thoughts as your cheeks burn hot with the liquor rushing through your veins, but it’s a good feeling. Loosening you up more than you would typically be. You only allow yourself to drink like this during the festivals, since you figure your celebration should be just as jovial as the gods you praise, lest you anger them.

By the time the feast is served, Liz has worked up the nerve with the help of your prodding to ask Peter to join at your table, and the dark-haired boy seems just as excited as she is to sit beside her. You’ve always liked Peter— he’s a nice boy, having come to live with his aunt not far from your own family’s farm along the outskirts of the village. After the plague took his parents and uncle those several years ago, you know his aunt must appreciate the extra hand, where there would otherwise be none.

His cheeks are rosy red, as he takes another gulp from his cup, before reaching for his bread once more, “I pick truth,” he tells the trader’s son sitting across from you, who has started the table in a round of the word game as your bellies get fuller with food and drink. MacTamhais is his name, and he’s just barely older than the rest of you. You know him not to pull punches, if last week’s sparring match had been any foreshadowing of his words at the table, now, to Peter.

“Alright,” MacTamhais grins with nothing but mischief, and you wonder if Peter regrets his choice when he asks with a wiggle of his brow, “If you were chosen May King of Beltane, who would you want to be your May Queen, if you could take your pick?”

Peter flushes darker in the firelight somehow, a feat you hadn’t expected to be possible, as even his ears burn a deep red with the idea of admitting who he would wish to join him in the sacred coupling of Beltane, before the gods. Most of the table is either too entertained or too tipsy to care for his clear embarrassment at the admittance dancing on his tongue, as laughter comes from all sides.

“I-I guess,” his eyes flick tentatively towards Liz, before he fixates on the piece of bread in his hand, and finally murmurs so softly you barely can make it out over the raucous conversation at the other tables, “Liz, but only if she would like.”

You can’t fight your grin at that, shooting your flustered girlfriend a fiendish look that she widens her eyes at, “Oh, she _would_ like it! Very much!”

Her pointed squeal of your name is drowned by the barking laughter of MacTamhais, “I should never have given you another cup! You can’t shut your mouth when you drink!”

And you’re laughing, now, too, as Peter clears his throat and quickly tries to get the game back on track, asking, “Truth or dare?” to his friend, Ned, at the end of the table.

It doesn’t take long for the questioning to rotate back your way, and the same boy who had scandalized Peter is the one asking you for your preference of truth or dare, to which you answer proudly, “Dare!”

His grin is just as fiendish as it had been when he earned Peter’s heavy flush not minutes ago, and you know your alternative choice will not be any less punishing than Peter’s had been, when he quips, “I dare you, to go into the woods.”

Liz gasps, reaching to take your shoulder in a death-grip to keep you firmly in your seat as she growls at him, “You know she can’t do that! Do you want her to anger the gods?”

“She will only anger them, if she gets caught by them,” he smirks, “or, are you scared?”

Puffing up your chest from both the annoyance of his taunting question that is not unlike how he would speak to you on the sparring grounds, you glare at him, “I fear _nothing_. I am of the same heart as the greatest warrior-women, Scathach and Aife, or have you already forgotten how I laid you on your ass last week?”

“A great warrior would have no need to fear even the gods,” he shoots back, and you know he’s only taunting you, but it flares up your anger nonetheless, stoking the flames of the poor judgement that comes with too much to drink.

“That’s stupid to say,” Peter counters, in apparent agreement with Liz that you should not go into the woods, despite this boy’s goading. “Everyone knows the servants of Cromm Crúaich wander the forests on festival nights, kept from the celebrations by Lugh himself.” His eyes slip to yours, and you know the worry in them, “You’ll risk never coming back, if they spot you.”

“Don’t do it,” Liz pleads, holding tight to your arm. “You’ll only make a meal for the fae, or if you see the Dullahan, he could strike you blind! Worse, he could call your name and drag your soul to the underworld with him! It’s what Cromm Crúaich did to Eithne, but in your case, Lugh will not come and behead Cromm Crúaich to save you!”

“Ah, but you will not need saving,” the taunting boy waggles a finger before your face, “should you be clever and not get caught. Just go beyond the trees a few paces out of sight, and turn back quickly. Surely the fae won’t see you if you are not as slow on your feet as you were when you sparred against me last week.”

“You are an idiot for even suggesting that she go—” Liz starts back at him, but you cut her off as you glare into his challenge.

“Slow? I was quicker than you, and you know it!” and you’re up, slipping from the distracted grip Liz has on you as she squeals after you not to go. Annoyance and pride push your footsteps across the damp earth, away from the table and the feast, until you are so far from the bonfire that its warmth no longer seeps into your skin, the protective glow of the village firelights lost beyond the trees.

Your resolve wavers only slightly as you come to the dense treeline of the forest, glancing back towards the festival to find everyone at the table has their eyes trained on you, to see if you will do it or not. Still, MacTamhais has questioned not only your courage, but your skill as a warrior, and if you turn back now, your honor will be tarnished, too, for having taken the challenge just to chicken out on it.

Not even the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach can stop you now, too dulled by the swirling mead in your gut, as you take your first step beyond the trees and into the darkness. The strumming of the harp and the beating of the drums drown in your ears with the further you go, replaced with the own beating of your heart and chirping of wildlife, blending together where the sharp rhythm of the drums have faded in the distance.

Your palms sweat, as the only light to guide you filters from the leaves above, bright moon showing you a dense path through the brush, until, with one look back, you find you are out of sight of the village. Pulse quickening, you make to turn about and head back just as quickly as you’ve come, but something catches in the corner of your eye. Movement in the fog, and you look, before you think better of gazing upon things amongst the trees on a festival night.

Hoofs against the wet grass, beating hard into the dirt as the black horse huffs harshly with what can only be described as something akin to anger, a blue flame ghosting and wafting from it’s nostrils, but not behaving like fire at all. Rather, like smoke. Like a ghostly spectre in the night, not meant to be looked upon by mortal eyes, and you know you have wandered into the territory of the fae.

Blood running cold, you freeze where you stand, losing all sense of yourself as you blink, taking in the terrifying sight, only for it to worsen as it shifts beyond the trees. Moving around them, its rider comes into view, pitch black metal glinting from the armor that shines in the moonlight with an otherworldly shadow, one hand at the reigns and another reaching for something obstructed from your view by the thigh settled tight to the side of the horse. Grasping for something strapped against the cloth of the dillat separating the rider from the bareback.

But, none of that is what truly makes you unable to even run, or think, or _breathe_. No, what keeps you frozen in place, is the fact that this rider is _missing his head._

You don’t have the good sense to close your eyes, with the terror striking you still, or cover your ears as he pulls his missing, severed head up from where it was strapped to the dillat, should he try to call your name. You don’t even think about the gold pendant around your throat, to throw before him and earn your escape from the path of the Dullahan before you.

None of that passes your mind, while the only thing you can think is nothing at all, barely able to process anything more than the sight of it.

The head’s eyes are on you, piercing and blue in a way that is only so striking because you _shouldn’t_ be able to notice his gaze at all, but they’re _glowing_. Just like you would imagine the guiding light of a wisp to be, but colder, with the chill of death in them. Sweat drips on his fierce brow, as his arm raises his head closer to that stub of a neck by the grip black leather gloves keep in the dark hair of his scalp, while the mouth, framed by the wiry hairs of a beard, opens as if to speak.

And you think this is the end of your short, foolish life, right then and there, for nothing good has ever come to pass with the sighting of the Dullahan.

But the word on his tongue is not a call of your name, but rather, someone else’s, and you’re so stunned that you barely understand it, until he speaks again.

_“Eithne,”_ he calls once more, and there’s a yearning there, in the haunting echo of his voice through the trees, before his head is replaced firmly where it was once severed from his throat, sealing itself in a terrible scar as his now-empty hand reaches towards you, demanding, _“Come, Eithne.”_

The snap of your body is reckless, as you regain your senses all at once in that split second, scrambling bare feet on the damp earth to escape— running for all it’s worth in the opposite direction, through the trees at a desperate pace. Hoofbeats thunder behind you, and it feels like his steed is breathing hot flames down your neck, a hair’s breadth away from the nape of it.

Zig-zagging through trees, you don’t take the time to dwell on his calling of the goddess’ name, instead of yours, only the small hope that you could, perhaps make it to the clearing beside the village before he catches you.

But, this festival dress is not so kind to be running in, and drapes low by your feet, catching in them, and sending you stumbling, falling, flailing to the ground to barely just catch yourself on the bruised and scraped palms of your hands.

Daring to look back, you find his advance is just as you suspected, far too close for comfort and closing fast. Time to recover from your fall is not something you have, before the hoofs of the black steed have stopped not far from where you scramble to get up, stomping close enough to send fresh dirt flying against the soles of your feet.

_“Eithne,”_ he calls again, firmer, and you care not for the way this dark god sounds almost broken through his words _, “why do you run from me? Have I not suffered enough?”_ You just barely get to your feet when his own hit the ground, axe in the belt at his hip weeping fresh blood, as he takes it into his grip. Voice haunting, and bizarrely gentle with his threat, _“Lugh will not take you, a second time, no matter the enchantment he has cast on you to keep you from me.”_

When you turn to run again, you stagger back when you find he is suddenly in front of you, blocking your path with a sinister grin, white teeth glinting, daggers in the night as he raises his axe.

All you can think to do is shout, desperately, terror in your voice as it shakes between the trees, “I am not Eithne, milord!” You flinch in anticipation of a blow from his axe, but none comes, and just as your eyes cast upon the frightening sight of the Dullahan again, he moves quickly to grasp you by the woven braids in your hair, a yelp escaping as he jerks your head backwards and your body into his chest.

_“I see through your shape shifting ways, Eithne. These tricks will not fool me again.”_

“I am only a village girl, milord—” you squeak, heart hammering in your ears at his cold grip at your hair, “a human—”

He scoffs, wry and bitter, like he doesn’t believe you in the least, _“No human would dare trespass on these lands on the anniversary of my banishment, if they valued their life. Do you mean to say, you take no value in your life?”_

“I value it, milord, but I am a fool! I should not have trespassed upon you! I was wrong to come here, but I am a human! You must believe me,” you beg, shivering now and sobered, from both the fear at the sight of the angry scar wrapped against the column of his neck, and the chill of his ghostly touch.

He tilts his head, snarl at his teeth, but the way his eyes look you up and down in disgust proves he has come to believe you, _“You will pay dearly for your mistake, stupid girl.”_

“I beg forgiveness,” you whimper, but as your true name forms on the Dullahan’s lips, the dread in your stomach swells, feeling a strange pull in your chest at the sound of it, like you would imagine it felt for your heart to stop.

_“If you are not Eithne, come to finally bring my harvest, then you shall take her place in your sacrifice for me,”_ he states, pushing you into a large oak tree, solid against your back as the Dullahan tightens his grip in your hair.

“S-Sacrifice?” it shakes on your tongue, as you wrack your brain for any way to quell his anger, but coming up empty, “I have no sacrifices, other than that which was given for Lughnasa.”

_“Is it not enough that Lugh should take my harvest? Now he shall have my sacrifices, too?”_ he grits through clenched teeth, and raises his axe to your throat, weeping edge digging into the soft skin there and striking you with a breathtaking fear as it cuts slightly with the razor-sharp pressure. His eyes glint, glowing ever so slightly brighter, as he announces, _“You will have to do.”_

“W-Wait, milord!” you strangle, words pouring from your lips as you cry, _“Cromm Crúaich!_ I beg on your name! Blessed god of the burial mound, do not take me in that way— there is another!”

He laughs, amusement ringing in the tone of it as much as his disbelief at you, as he asks, _“You think the name your people gave me has any power over me? You do not know my true name, human.”_

Swallowing thickly against his blade, you try to ignore the sting of your shallow cut, as you resolve yourself to stare the fae directly in the eyes when you offer, “The festival of the harvest is upon my people, and though you have been banished from your celebration with the gods, should you not take advantage of the opportunity to take part in even a piece of the sacred tradition?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, raised brow arching along his forehead as you pray your eagerness to hear the druids preach on more than just gods of light will serve you well, now, “Your dominion is over more than just the burial mounds. For generations, my family has offered you milk and honey, mead and pigs for the slaughter, asking for more than your guidance in only death, but in life, too. Fertility and the harvest go hand-in-hand, and you are a god of fertility, are you not? Have the druids told of you incorrectly?”

Your voice may shake, your body may shiver, but your pleas are direct, resolute, and you can see the way he watches you with consideration, as you continue, “I beg you, take me in that way instead, and bless my family’s farmlands. Make the soil fertile and ripe for the growing harvest, as you once did. Or, if none of that, at the very least, spare my life, so you may enjoy me again as you would not be able to should you take my soul away.”

His eyes gaze peculiarly at you, with something akin to amusement, _“You are strange, human. I can taste your fear in the air, yet you offer yourself so willingly in this way, when you know of my nature. It can prove too much for most of your kin to bear.”_

You desperately hope he will listen— will take part of his more benevolent nature with the same fickle mind the fae are known for, “I am but a servant to the gods, milord. You may be a dark god, with dark natures, but you are still a god, to which I ask only for your mercy.”

There’s consideration on his brow, a cause for hope, as he raises his chin and you catch sight of the red, puckered skin of the scar along his throat once more, _“Your name has already passed my lips, mortal. It is too late. You may not leave, even when I tire of you. This price you must pay for your trespass is eternal, as it always has been.”_

Tears welling in your eyes, you feel yourself begin to choke up at the thought of never again seeing your parents, your friends, or anyone else in the village, even that damned MacTamhais— until silently one salty stream leaks down your cheek. His hand comes to the skin there, and you’re surprised to find it absent of the leather he once donned, his touch even colder without them than with.

_“So warm,”_ he muses in a low tone, trapping your tear with his thumb to smear along your temple, watching you cry. Then, unprovoked, “ _Yes, I do think I will have you, since you have offered so politely.”_

Then, as quickly as his fingers splay along the length of your jaw, they are gone— _he_ is gone. Vanished from before you to leave you gasping and shaking with the shock of his absence.

You look for him, of course, but find that even his wrathful steed has left you alone here, in this treacherous wood. Is it a trick? Some twisted game, you guess, but even the suspicion of his intentions does not keep the traitorous hope from swelling in your chest, that perhaps you can escape beyond the trees once again— back to your village.

Pushing from the oak, you take off, rushing in the direction you believe the village to be, but the brush is thicker than you remember. Roots risen along the ground snake along your path, large obstacles that keep your pace just a fraction slower with carefulness not to fall than it would otherwise have been. Had they been so big before? The trees? When you had traversed this terrain before, you hadn’t thought it so uneven. So unkempt.

When you look up from your careful feet, you don’t see what you wish to see. There is no sight of the village ahead of you, only trees upon more trees, and the unease in your gut seeps into your bones. Still, you won’t give up hope, not yet. Perhaps, you had simply wandered further into the wood than you initially thought. Yes, that must be it.

Trekking on, you’re relieved only when you see a faint thinning of the trees, picking up your pace until you burst through them, out into the clearing, hoping it would be somewhere familiar, perhaps only a little further away from the village than you initially anticipated your exit would be.

Your stomach drops almost immediately.

It is not.

The clearing is circular, riddled with mushrooms along the rim of it, scorched earth seeping further in. Weeds tuck only around the large roots of a tree you’ve never seen the likes of before, large and expansive in how it sprawls along the skyline barely allowing a glimpse of the heavens at all. In which, the fireflies moving through the fog are as close as you get to seeing stars. It is, perhaps, the largest faery ring you have ever seen, you think, and your heart quickens when you realize you are standing in it.

“To where do you intend to go?” makes you jump, startled to find him leaning against the grandiose tree in the time it takes you to blink. The black horse on which he rides emerges from beyond it, grazing at the sparse ground familiarly, and that’s when the creeping suspicion of where you stand creeps up the back of your neck, spreading through your skull to send a shiver up your spine. His next question has a cruelty to it, twisted mirth along the upward tilt of his lips, “Do you intend to run these woods for eternity, in search of your home, village girl?”

“This is,” you breathe, in a mixture of uneasiness and reverence, “not my home.”

“No,” he agrees as you blink. _When did he get so close?_ Stalking around you as you stand there, barely able to process this information, until he stands in front of you again, and brings his hand to your chin, lifting your face to his scrutiny, “This realm, is mine. Now, let me have a good look at you.”

You do the same, as his eyes dance over your features, taking them in in a way that he did not do before. Here, in his homeland, he is not so otherworldly like he appears in your own. It is as if this place knows he is meant to belong here, and suits him, while yours knows he is not, and works to announce that fact as best it can through the glow in his eyes and the shadow in his step. You wonder, if this place knows you do not belong, too. Do you look as terrifying to him, here, as he had to you in the forest moments ago?

Or, have hours passed?

You can’t tell for sure. It feels like seconds, but it is as if your soul knows it is longer than that. You can’t explain it, this feeling in your gut, that tells you whatever magic he has done is not as it seems to your mortal eyes.

“You are pretty, for a human, I suppose,” he says dismissively, and you think that’s as close to a compliment as you can expect from a fae, let alone this one, who prefers cruelty to kindness. “Come,” he demands, much like he did when he first saw you, and mistook you for the goddess in disguise that he had lost so long ago. As he leads you towards the tree, you notice the slab of stone against the weeds, worn and weathered, nearly grown over among the only somewhat lush area beside the tree.

The carvings on it are not unlike the symbols of your people, worshipful markings and spirals that decorate the runes announcing praises to Cromm Crúaich, from what you can make out of the ancient language that is only slightly adjacent to your own.

“Sit on my altar, little one,” he says simply, and you swallow down the discomfort at the idea of getting upon this slab of stone like a sacrifice for the slaughter, but that’s what you are, aren’t you? He may not have his axe to your throat, or look as threateningly upon you, but you’re just as entirely at his mercy, here, as you were before.

Trying your best to muster your courage, you do as he says, head held high, as if it were an honor to do this— isn’t that what the sacrifices said when they volunteered? Boasted to the village chief that it was an honor to serve the gods in this way?

Well, your service here, you figure, is a little bit different than the way they had been slaughtered before the kindling bonfire at the start of Lughnasa before the witnessing village.

Here, in this grove, beneath this ancient tree that was, perhaps, older than the world itself, was the realm of Cromm Crúaich, and there were no witnesses. No gasping of breaths in shock and awe at the sight to behold. Just an eerie quiet, and the rustling of the branches above your head. The fae before you, dressed in his ebony armor, donning his peculiar expression in his observation of you as you sit on the carved slab of stone, like he was relishing in the sight of a living creature being set before him so willingly. A sacrifice.

If you didn’t know better, and if it weren’t for the scar, still raw and irritable along his neck, you could trick yourself into thinking he was just a man, with how his eyes watch you now.

Even if this were the festival of Beltane, and you were the May Queen, you still do not think you would feel as exposed as you do now, sitting upon the altar of Cromm Crúaich. If he were just a man, this would not be so intimidating, you think.

Any chance of tricking yourself into thinking that is lost when he steps close to you, catching you by the head of your hair like he had before, and gestures offhandedly with his other wrist in a way that was just as dismissive as his attitude had been, until now, “You’re fortunate, to be given a chance to serve me. Now is your chance to earn it.” His grip grows a little tighter, earning a whimper past your lips, as the laces along the chest of your dress work their way undone by some unseen magic, “Lugh has made my lands barren, and fewer sacrifice to me as they once did. Lugh is who you have to blame, for all the work you will need to do to satisfy me.”

By the time he is finished with his frustrated speech, your dress has slacked against your shoulders, once modest dip elongated into a deep V with the removal of the ties which once held it shut. Relaxing his hand from your hair, it slips down, along your throat, to the slope of your shoulder, pushing cool fingertips beneath the fabric to slip from your skin.

“You will give me, everything,” he says, a dark look in his eye, growl in his throat, “I will have every part of you.” His words send a shiver up your spine, as his hand presses on, bold, without hesitance, as he drags the back of his palm down your chest, along the curve of your breast, while the fabric gives to his advance. Falling from your skin, the upper half of the dress pools around your waist, as he watches you carefully, “You shall give me all there is left for you to give. After I have tired of you, should you serve me well, I will ensure your soul reaches the Otherworld _, Tír na nÓg,_ yes?”

His palm is up, open, as if offering you to take it, as he retreats his fingertips from your skin, and, with a shaky breath, you do, hoping this isn’t another trick. That he is not lying. All the tales warn of making deals with the fae, but this one already has you, and is promising safe passage to the afterlife after he is through with you. If this is what the rest of your life is to be, then you wish to live it grateful that his punishment for your trespassing was not the harsher option.

Still, you cannot bring yourself to answer him.

Lips quirk upwards as your hand squeezes his, and he helps you to your feet, the cinching string along your hips the only thing keeping your dress from falling entirely, “Very well, then, remove the rest of your clothes. You won’t need them, for what I intend to do with you.”

You feel the flush in your skin, burning from the inside out at his words. Truthfully, none of the village boys had spoken to you so boldly before, even during Beltane. You were not embarrassed, or ashamed, but rather enticed to do as he asked of you. Perhaps he has bewitched you with some dark magic, but for the first time since setting eyes on him, you dare to think him not so much the terror of old from the stories, as you push your dress off your hips to pool on the earthen floor. No, for now, the fear had settled to a low simmer with the knowledge that he would not hurt you, and was not so prominent as the budding excitement lacing your veins. It dared you to obey his every whim, not only because he was a deity— but because, this ritual, you think you will enjoy.

Still, you can’t help yourself from questioning with a mixture of genuine curiosity and cheek, “I admit, milord, I am surprised at how much you speak. The tales say you are limited to one word for each journey you take.”

“That is mostly true. Lugh beheaded me with an enchanted blade as a cruel lesson to tame me from calling for Eithne again, but on this night— the anniversary of that act— I am able to speak unrestricted by his magics,” his hand reaches out, thumb training along your lips as a bitter sadness settles in the frown at his own. “Just because I can only speak a word for the rest of the year, does not mean I would not like to speak more, but this curse is one I cannot be freed from.”

The taste of guilt settles on your tongue at having brought it up, “But here, you can speak all you like?”

“Yes, this place, it belongs to me. It bends to my will. Lugh has no power here, nor anyone else.”

“That is very good, milord,” you look away from his piercing stare, a bit flustered by the realization that his eyes were actually a deep blue beneath the otherworldly glow they’d once held in the world of the living. He was, standing here, admittedly handsome, despite the gruesome scar along his neck where the flesh knitted together despite his curse, “I would like to hear you speak more, should you wish to.” He chuckles, and you find that, this time, it sounds more genuine than before. More natural, and less threatening than that which had passed his lips when you first came across him.

His hands, though, are still cold— shockingly so, as he catches you by the back of the neck, digging into your hair as he tugs your lips to his, ghosting just out of reach of your own when he murmurs, “Kiss me, little one.” You find that all of him is cold, as he slips your bare body right up against the metallic armor that covers his chest, symbolic carvings digging ridges into your skin, but you don’t find it uncomfortable, more than the chill of it.

But his lips, they don’t take long to distract you entirely upon pressing your own to them, catching you with sharp canines in a nip that is more playful than you expected— then again, you aren’t quite sure what you expected at all, from this creature. Perhaps, more aggression than you are being met with, considering the stories of him? Instead, you get his tongue, pressed up against yours, and a soft moan at the deepening of the kiss, as the hand that is not in your hair catches at your hip, icy grip making you squeak with the jolt of it.

And he laughs, a slight chuckle that skips between this kiss and the next, as he advances upon you more fully, walking you back the slight step that leaves your calves pressed against the stone of the altar. You barely have time to register the fresh, earthy smell of him in the back of your mind before he’s pulling away from your lips, staring down at you with a haughty amusement. Like he’s excited to mess with you further.

“Tell me, why did you venture into the woodlands?” the curiosity lacing his question does not slow him, as he pushes you back against the altar with more force than you anticipated. You gasp, falling back towards the stone, only to find it covered with furs, draped along the middle of it comfortably. Along the ends of it, however, the furs do not reach, and you are able to catch a glimpse of the runes beneath, now glowing a bright blue with the start of his ritual. Stepping closer, he continues, “What would be worth risking my wrath?”

There’s the fear again, licking at your heels, but it’s halted by the overpowering lust that strikes through you, almost unexplainably, as you push yourself up the furs by your feet to center yourself along the altar, “I-It was a challenge. A boy from my village questioned my bravery as a warrior, and I was foolish enough to care.”

“You are a warrior, among your people?” he hums his question, as his hands come to settle along your thighs, and in a blink, you realize his overarmor has dissipated into just the sleek, black leathers of the underarmor that was once beneath. At your silence, his gaze settles upon your face, and you manage a slight nod in response that seems to be satisfactory enough to him, considering his hands continue their path along the warm flesh of your thighs, ever upwards. “Good,” he murmurs softly, low enough that your ears have to strain to hear him, even over the surrounding silence of this grove, “maybe, you will not be so easily broken.”

You want to ask him what he means, but you’re honestly too afraid of the answer to get out the question. He doesn’t give you long to ponder his meaning, though, because his hands pull you closer to him by their grips on your upper thighs, allowing him to press above you by the knee he settles on the stone. Your breaths are coming quick, uneven, as you burn with his proximity and something else that you can’t quite put your finger on. The cold feeling of him comes almost as a relief, to the heat that spreads through your body, and you realize you’re sweating by the time he dips his head to ghost his lips once more along your own.

He’s done something to you, you’re sure of it, by the way his eyes watch yours for some sort of reaction to whatever was causing the blood to pump furiously in your ears, heart hammering in your chest.

Involuntarily, your hand finds the ridged leather covering his chest, instinctively pushing against the firm strength of him, while you squirm beneath with the warmth that floods through your abdomen, “W-What— have you done?”

“This is what you asked for, girl,” he reminds, a hint of humor glinting in his eyes at the sight of your startled entrapment. “Did you think these fertility rites would be like that of your people’s simple worship?” A chuckle slips past his lips, dark, dripping with the threat of what was to come, “This is of the old magic, that the living among you have never known. It is not easily satisfied.”

Writhing against the furs, it feels like being set on fire from the inside. A pain that’s deep, but an even more discomforting ache that lingers past the initial, sparking pain, settling into the fibers of your being, begging for more of his quenching touch. Fists clenching into the fur, and undoubtedly ripping some hairs from it, you whimper pitifully, as he settles his body against yours, dousing the pain with his coolness and stoking the flames of desire alongside it.

“The more you fight it, the quicker you will grow tired, and if you tire too quickly, we will not be able to complete the ritual,” he sighs into your ear. “This is not a challenge for you to win.”

“You,” you groan, and if it weren’t for his solid form against you, you would have curled in on yourself by now, “you want me to lose?”

“That is not what I said,” his hands scoop along the curve of your breasts, and you let out a shuddering breath in response. “Allow me to be clearer,” he was talking infuriatingly slowly, or maybe your mind just couldn’t keep up with the magic burning through your senses, “This is not a challenge at all.”

You would hate to see what his idea of a challenge was, because this? This was torture. Mind-numbing, excruciating, torture, and the only thing you can even manage to think, is that you’re not close enough to him, because you’re still burning hot when he had once been able to cool you down with just his touch.

Your vision is blurry, and you aren’t certain if it’s from how tightly you were keeping them shut, or if you’re genuinely crying by now, “Please— milord, please—” Agreeing to this, had been just another foolish mistake, you’re certain of it in that moment, as you’re pulled between the painful ache and the longing for something more than that.

“Calm yourself,” his breath wafts, cool, along your chest, as his fingers splay along the curve of your stomach, the swell of your hips, and you arch against him as his teeth graze gently on the underside of your breast, “Let it overtake you, until it feels like there’s next to nothing left. In the space between life and death, you will find your relief.”

You barely register his voice in your ears, drowned by the sound of your own blood rushing through your head. It felt like it was throbbing, and when you blink your blurry eyes up at the leaves overhead, it feels like your whole reality was pulsing alongside you. His lips are cool, teeth and tongue tracing their way down your abdomen, and you can’t even make yourself focus on him with the way it took all your energy to simply remember to breathe, with this pain in your lungs.

For the life of you, you try to do what he said. Try to be obedient to this old god that was far more familiar with this than you, and pray that he doesn’t take too much pleasure in the picture of your laborious breathing and struggled brow. But, relaxing is easier said than done, and while this may not be a challenge to him, it certainly is to you.

Barely, faintly, you hear something that sounds like, “I will help you,” through the thick cotton in your ears, before, like a swift punch to the gut, all the wind is knocked out of your carefully constructed breaths. You think you scream, and are certain it’s a dying wail, up until the point that your back comes flush against the furs once more, melting from it’s writhing arch at the feeling of his cool tongue parting your folds, drinking you in. A broad hand splays along your abdomen, forcing you with a hefty weight down into the furs as he controls your hips, though any thought of hurting him with the way your thighs clamp down along his head is forgotten with the remembrance of just what, exactly, he is.

You’re babbling, incoherent, begging in a language you don’t even know, as the digits of his other hand press at your entrance, adding a new torture to the first, and pressing you open, giving willingly to his fingers. Far more pliable than you would have expected to be, but maybe that was the magic at his tongue, readying you more than you’d realized.

Exhaustion bites at your heels, chasing you, nearly as fast as your oncoming climax as his lips close over the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs, batting along your clit with his tongue. How long have you been like this? You aren’t entirely certain, having lost track of the seconds and minutes somewhere between the waves of pleasure and pain that crash upon you one after the other. Beating you into submission, to smooth you like a ragged stone under the constant barrage of a flowing river.

He has you on the precipice to somewhere, and you’re nearly ready to snap when his hand on your stomach pushes up to your sternum, forcing you down against the altar with a forceful shove and connecting your once-arched back flat again. Your own grasp is on the edge of the stone, above your head, clutching for anything that will keep you weighted to this plane of existence, as the whole universe throbs and pulses in time with your own heartbeat.

There’s nothing, aside from the icy press of his tongue, the cold curve of his fingers within you, and the burning race of your heartbeat, as insistent as the drums at the feast of Lughnasa. You barely feel like a person anymore, rather than a flaming bundle of nerves needing desperately to be put out by the quenching relief of his touch.

When it breaks, you’re certain he’s killed you. Sends you screaming with pleasure like the coil in your stomach has snapped you in two, echoing into the distant forest, as your climax takes you with the pulsing heat that captures your heart. The relief, is what makes you believe you’re dead, in that moment, because there’s no other reasonable explanation for the abrupt end to the excruciating ache that has consumed you since the start of this ritual.

Only when you come down, do you realize you’re still breathing, albeit _hard_ , against the furs and stone altar that is, actually, minutely vibrating with a low hum of energy beneath you. The blue glow of the runes ebb and flow, shadowing his face as he looks down at you with a wicked smile, taking his hand from your sternum to push his palm gently along your forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his tone somewhere adjacent to soothing, but not quite. You can do nothing other than whimper as the ache slowly returns, though duller than it was, “You’ve already fared better than most who have come before you.” You don’t even have the sense to ask him what was going on anymore, as you try to catch your breath even a little bit before the painful ache grows once again, “Most struggle to get through the first rite.”

“I still,” you groan softly, straightening yourself somewhat with your weak limbs as you gaze up at him, “feel it.”

“Don’t you remember? I’ve already told you, the old magic is not so easily satisfied.”

“What must I do, milord?” anything, you would do anything, to keep from feeling that pain again, and to feel that overwhelming pleasure once more.

“Eager, are you?” his grin cuts along his jaw, like he was genuinely enjoying this, as he reaches to push down the edge of the fur to point along the runes lining the corner of the altar, reading, _“‘All things in threes and in threes you’ll be freed,’_ it is written. You have completed one of the three rites.”

“There are two more,” it’s a whine, in some mixture of reluctance and anticipation.

“The last two are not so harsh,” the Dullahan chuckles, probably at the way your face has twisted in a flurry of uncertainty, and temptation, “you will find them easy, compared to the first.”

“You also said the first was not a challenge,” it might be an unwise quip, but you say it before you think, judgement fuzzied by the weakness in your bones, “but I found it quite challenging.”

“Just because it was challenging, does not make it a _challenge_ ,” he retorts, and you groan at the fae’s attention to semantics. He’s deathly serious, of course, with the importance words have on his magic, and so you don’t argue further.

“This… second rite,” you begin, glancing down him with clearer eyes, and disappointingly finding him still snugly within his leather underarmor, “how shall we complete it?”

He holds up his hand, counting off three of his fingers in succession as he says, _“Pén, Grád, Fonn, Fuil.”_

Frown etching into your brow, you repeat, “Pain, Love, Desire, Blood?”

“The first rite,” he wiggles his thumb, “was Pain. The second,” then his index, “is Love,” and finally his middle, “and the third, Desire. These are the aspects of fertility, in all things, and so must the rites be.”

“The blood?” it’s a wary question on your tongue, but you ask it anyway, swallowing down the swelling ache in your abdomen.

He smirks down at you, and it does nothing to ease your nerves when he hums, “Comes after.” You think that he wants you on edge, beating around the bush like this, and you know better than to battle over words with a fae, so you simply drop it, for now, and bide your time until the end.

And it is not as if he gives you the chance, with how swiftly you find yourself sitting atop him on the stone altar. You sway slightly, with the inertia of the movement, but find his grip on your waist keeps you from falling off his lap entirely.

There’s a tug in your stomach, like a string tethering you downwards, and you involuntarily settle where it leads, gasping, blinking wide open at the curved length that finds you there. Thick between you, he hitches his hips, and you find his underarmor is gone much the same as his outerarmor had been, leaving him as bare as you, though not as vulnerable.

He is bigger than most you’ve seen, though not frighteningly so, and you find your grip on his shoulders aids in your leveraging yourself off of him to take a better, more brazen look. There’s dark hair along his chest, color the very same as that of his beard and the crown of his head, leading down his stomach into a trail that dips lower until your eyes snap back to his when his hand finds your forearm.

He watches you with lidded eyes, and the soft glow of the runes casts a shadow along his jaw that almost obscures the scar at his throat. Though, there is no mistaking him for anything other than what he is, this time, as his eyes glint with that same blue light for the instant it takes to guide your hands to take his own.

“We will go slow,” he coaxes, voice soft like honey, and just as thick with his enchantment. The ache is potent, just as much as it first was, but it’s not particularly painful like it once was, as it settles in your chest, warming you once more from the inside out. Swelling, is what it feels like— a pressure on your lungs that makes it hard to breathe, short breaths coming quicker as he drags you over the length of him, cock hitting between your thighs and grazing your clit with the tempting grind he sets.

Your thighs are shaking, still unsteady from the first, but you do your best to keep your balance and concentrate on following his lead in this, as you had the last.

Heartbeat quickening, you feel his cool grasp squeeze at your own as he shifts his hips into your next tantalizing grind against him, catching you in a sharp gasp as the head of him hangs on your entrance, but the choice to sink down upon him is yours. His arms steady you, hands clutching yours as you catch your bottom lip in your teeth, brow furrowing with the stretch that comes with the split of him through your folds.

Shaky breaths are all you can manage, as the feeling in your chest grows tighter, nearly suffocating, as you sink further down his shaft, taking him in slow rocks that leave him buried to the hilt by the third sink of your hips against him. By the time that you reopen the eyes you hadn’t quite realized you’d closed in the first place, he’s shifted, leaning back, flat against the altar, encouraging your continuing thrusts with the shift of his hips and the slight part of his own lips.

It is jarringly gentle, and the opposite of what you’ve come to expect over this time spent with him, but all the same you do as he wishes. Raising up on your knees, relishing the feeling of him, before sinking down once again upon him. The rhythm you set, is a lazy one, undoubtedly influenced by the exhaustion that had draped upon you after the first rite, and, also with his lack of protest to it.

With each rock of your body against his, you find yourself coming more undone, becoming breathier and more desperate in your soft whimpers and gentle moans. Eager for whatever encouraging sounds you occasionally earn from him, deep and masculine, as his hands keep yours. All the while watching you through lidded eyes, as you minutely hasten your pace, only in the chase of your own pleasure as you ride him how you please, up until the moment his hips snap up into the middle of your rhythm, wrenching a strangled yelp from your lungs.

The heat had not been as unbearable as before, at first, with how slowly it crept upon you, but now it was just as sweltering, burning with the threat of what you’ve come to realize is the completion of the next rite.

Though this rite was a representation of the worship of love, it felt more like desire. The way he watched you was not so gentle or kind as the lulling rock of his hips up to yours. In his eyes is an all-consuming, devouring hunger, and you doubt this will be enough to sate him, as you close in on your own pleasure with his encouraging thrusts that seek to jolt your patterned movements off-track. He already has you at a disadvantage, as your second orgasm teeters on the edge of this cliff you’ve built for yourself, with the sensitivity from the last time still having an effect on both your energy levels as well as the ease with which he can throw you overboard.

This one is not the same screaming, earth-shattering relief that was the first. It is more patient, slow like the moment leading up to it, collected in a shattered moan in the back of your throat as you clutch to his grasp in yours for dear life. Your lungs close in on you, and for a terrifying instant, you can’t breathe at all, with the burning heat that feels near to bursting into flames in your chest. Tense from head to toe, you seize up, only to come crumbling down just as wildly as before, only in a different way. Shaking with the spasms of your peak plummeting desperately into a pit of desire, you’re barely able to hold tight and fuck yourself upon him for these last few, drawn-out moments of bliss.

He murmurs something you don’t quite understand, as he pulls you down with ease in your collapse against his chest, still seated deep within you as he kisses you with a bit of an edge to it. Rougher than before, with a slight desperation he hadn’t yet displayed up until now, his own collected façade shattering with the completion of his second rite.

And you can taste it, the biting desire on his tongue, impatient and raw up into your mouth as his lips clash along your own drugged post-orgasmic slowness. He barely lets you come down at all from it, before he’s turning, dragging, with only the brute strength of his hands against your body, no fancy tricks in the way he maneuvers you onto your belly against the thrumming energy of the altar.

It’s animalistic, the way he sets himself upon you now, pushing right back into you from where he’s bent you against the stone and furs, as desperately aroused as before, but even moreso with his own need for release. There’s praising, mixed with some even older dialect you barely can make out, that is the only thing allowing you to even believe that he’s in somewhat control of himself, as he tugs you up from your moaning heap into his arms. Chest against your back, keeping you tightly to him by his hand clutching against your bare breast, you now realize why this is what he had called desire.

It had set upon you like he had lit you aflame himself, in the mere instant between one second and the next when he’d pushed you face-down into the furs, already burning up for him with the magic that has come to be a somewhat familiar constant over the last… however long it was, now. You can’t be certain anymore.

You’ve entirely lost track.

“Cromm Crúaich,” you choke around the words, gasping for air with how deeply he hits you on each thrust from this angle, tears trailing down the sides of your cheeks as you entirely lose control of yourself, calling blessings in his name since you don’t know what else to do as he fucks you into oblivion over and over again, barely down from one before he hurls you into another. You’re left shaking, barely able to stay upright, if it weren’t for his tight grasp around you, biting words you can barely focus on into your ear with his increasing brutality.

It’s so much more than you can take, and then some, as he uses you, for lack of better word, in your entirety, for his own selfish desperation. _This—_ This is what you had expected of him.

The blade is at your throat before you can see it, glinting red with that same axe he had held there before, as a sickly terror bites with the soul-shattering burn of arousal.

It smells of iron, as he growls through clenched teeth before you can even squeak in protest, “I told you, the blood comes after.” The axe slips, blunted side, through the valley of your breasts as he retreats his hand, only to take your own with his other, tugging your arm out as you yelp with fear before he adds, “We won’t need much,” and slices only deep enough to draw blood along your palm, before pushing you forward onto the altar as his grasp returns to your hips.

The furs have gone in the blink before your hands land along the stone, blood smearing from the one he’s cut as you retreat it at the sting. But even the pain of his cut can’t keep you from almost collapsing against the stone from the way your legs nearly give out as he brings you to climax once more, roughly, without your anticipation. And you’re thoroughly exhausted even before he’s through with you. Before the press of his fingertips slip from the firm grip he’s had on your hips to the cleft of your clit, and you’re left begging for mercy as he drags you down with him into the depths of his final rite.

It isn’t until your knees do give out that the heat leaves you, floundering in your attempt to keep from hitting the earth too harshly upon them in vain. The runes flash bright, as you strike the ground with a spent whimper, panting in your attempts at catching your breath as he does the same with a death-grip on the edge of the altar.

Your gaze follows the arm he leans upon as you cradle your wounded hand, watching while he blinks through the almost blinding glow of his eyes, until they return to his more subdued, natural blue.

It is only then that you notice the ground is not so barren, but greener. Sprouting not just weeds, but flowers, from the altar seeping out. Even the tree looks healthier, its leaves greener, if that were possible, and it’s then that you realize what the sacrifice has given him.

“The ground,” he breathes between one heavy breath and the next, “is more fertile.” His eyes shift from their appreciation of his improved surroundings to your own, and you know that, despite the thanks in them, he will not say it. He does not want to imply he owes you anything.

When he does catch his breath, much quicker than you, he crouches alongside you to take your cradled hand with his own, and you flinch instinctively as his palm closes over it. The cold stings, and you tug it back with a pained whimper, only to find that the skin has mended, where the blood still stains.

Surprised, you glance back to him, but you don’t dare thank him, either. You owe him enough, already.

“You may rest, now; I guess you’ve earned it, for serving me so well,” he begins, standing back to his full height, as you avert your eyes to the stone beside you. Tracing the runes absentmindedly with your fingertips, relaxing in the afterglow and the tiredness in your bones. These runes, you still can only make out a few of, but mostly you gather the praises to Cromm Crúaich and fragments of instructions for several rituals, etched along the side of the stone.

By the time you glance back to him, you find he’s returned himself to his underarmor, as he leads his black steed to graze in the fresher grass of the clearing. Smiling contentedly, you try not to think too hard on whatever is next, as you return to your tracing of runes along the altar of Cromm Crúaich, only to catch your eye along a small string of untranslatable runes that were so worn they’ve nearly faded entirely, along the bottom of the stone. It’s easily missable, but you make out one word, a name.

_Cúmhaí._

“That is not a god,” you whisper low, only to yourself, brow furrowing with confusion as you try and remember which god you have forgotten, but coming up empty. You are certain, the druids never told of this name, when referencing a god. Besides, if it were another god, why would he be named here, on the altar of Cromm Crúaich? _It can’t be_ …

“ _Cúmhaí_ ,” you say, a little louder, calling towards the Dullahan and finding a sharp wind kicks up around you. He appears frozen, stock still by the name, before turning his head to gaze at you with an utterly shocked bewilderment in his eyes, as you try again, “ _Quentin_ , that is your name, isn’t it?”

One blink, and he stands before you once more, anger mixing with the confusion on his face, “How do you know?”

You point directly, swiping your index along the runes, “It is written.” His jaw ticks with annoyance, before his composure breaks entirely, a raging shout bursting from his lungs as he splits the stone in two with the throw of his axe.

He’s pacing, as you gather yourself to your feet, only to become captured in his grasp as he catches you by your shoulders, “What do you want, then? Now that you know?” His eyes are as cold as his hands, no hint of the lover he once was in them, as he bites, “You will have me return you to your home, is that it?” You open your mouth to speak, and he cuts you off, releasing your shoulders with a defeated groan, “Of course, you will.”

With a dismissive wave, you’re standing not in the faery ring of the great clearing, but rather, the darkened forest, with a starry sky above you. Blinking through the darkness, you’re almost shocked by the turn of events, and the quickness of his fickle mood.

“Quentin?” you dare to call upon him again, voice shaking with the excitement of it, as he appears alongside you, as ghostly an apparition as he was when you’d first set eyes upon him, glowing eyes and all. His jaw is set, annoyance on his brow, as he looks towards you expectantly, and you move closer to him, while he watches you warily, “I shall sacrifice for you more, in the future,” your hands smooth up the metal of his armor, as he raises a brow, “if you should wish it.” Leaning upwards, you ignore the threatening scar along his throat, in favor of tentatively brushing your lips against the cold skin of his own, breaking into a grin as he returns the kiss, just as heatedly.

“I shall not forget your promise of safe passage into the Otherworld, milord,” you murmur, when he finally lets you go. “I am forever your servant, but I wish to remain among my people, when you have no use of me.”

He searches your gaze for a moment of genuine surprise, before he nods, and replies with a simple, poignant, _“Yes,”_ and vanishing at this journey’s end.

Interestingly, you find your own simple smile cannot be tamed, as you stand in the midst of his wood for a moment longer, before turning on your heel and moving beyond the trees and into the village. It’s quieter than you remember, and you find the bonfire is no longer lit for Lughnasa, but, before you can take in much more, you hear a yelp from a home not far from where you stand in the village square.

Turning, you spot a wide-eyed Liz as she shouts your name like she can’t quite believe it’s you, “Oh, thank the gods! You’re alright!”

Nearly knocking the wind out of you when she runs to catch you in her arms, you giggle slightly while trying to catch your footing, “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t squeeze so tight!”

“I’ll squeeze as tight as I please! I thought you were dead!” she gasps into your shoulder.

“Well, I’m not. Why is the bonfire not lit? Lughnasa should not be stopped on my account! I would not wish to be the reason the village angers the gods!”

“Lughnasa?” Liz scoffs, leaning away from you to shoot you a strange look, repeating your name, but slower, “Lughnasa has already passed us. _You’ve been missing for days!”_


	2. Link to Spanish Translation on Wattpad

Huge thanks to Lineofspace here on Ao3 (NeonDemon42 on Wattpad) for translating this fic into Spanish for anyone who would like to read it en Español instead of English! I'm sharing the link for everyone to read the Spanish translation over on Wattpad for anyone who is interested! ❤❤❤ 

##  [ **Read this en Español on Wattpad - Translation by NeonDemon42** ](https://href.li/?https://www.wattpad.com/1023809070-hacia-la-noche-quentin-beck-x-lectora-au-hacia-la)


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